Deluge
by prouvaires
Summary: -so pretty, so smart; such a waste of a young heart.- ArthurMorgana


_You know I haven't slept in weeks – you're the only thing I see._

**Disclaimer**: I don't own the BBC TV show Merlin, or any of the characters therein.

**Words: **2,722

**Rating: **T

**A/N: **So I'm only up to episode six of season two so far, and therefore have no clue what happens later. Please forgive any discrepancies, and imagine this one-shot taking place somewhere between episodes four and five of season two.

**Song: **Satellite Heart by Anya Marina

--

He can't sleep. It's been weeks since the incident with Hengrist and the giant … baby rat. He chuckles softly as he rolls over again and tries to get comfortable enough to drop off. It was a stroke of genius with the gaia berries, and he's thankful Merlin was idiot enough to fall for it. He's entirely too trusting for his own good.

He's slightly at his wits end. He's tried sleeping under the covers, on top of the covers, on top of the covers with a blanket, on his front, his back and his sides. Nothing's working, and he's furious. He's always been able to drop off to sleep almost instantly – his father laughs and says it's because as a child he refused to sleep through the night before he was three, and constantly woke his maids up complaining that he couldn't sleep. Uther says he's making up for it now.

He usually sleeps so heavily that nothing can wake him – not even Merlin sneaking around getting up to gods know what. But for the last few weeks he hasn't even snatched an hour's sleep in one go. Every time he shuts his eyes he sees _her _face, and her anguish as she realised Lancelot was gone, and their fingers intertwined.

He punches the pillow in anger and rearranges his body yet again, trying to banish all thoughts from his mind. He knows he should just be grateful that Lancelot's gone now, and that Guinevere can be his – although he'll have to wait until his father is dead and gone before he can go to her and ask to marry her.

This thought is not comforting. He doesn't want to wait – he wants to have her now, before she can pine over Lancelot any longer and let her feelings for him consume her. He sighs, gives up, and gets out of bed.

"Merlin!" he shouts impatiently as he pulls on a shirt and his boots. The servant rushes in, arms full of clothes, and almost trips over his own feet.

"Yes, sire?" he asks once he's rebalanced himself. Arthur sighs.

"You really need to watch your feet."

"Another of my many talents?" Merlin replies with a remarkably chipper smile, considering the late hour, and dumps the clothes on the table. "Anything I can help you with, sire, or did you merely wish to commend me on my clumsiness?"

Arthur rolls his eyes. "Ready my horse. I'm taking a ride."

Merlin glances outside, and his brow puckers uncertainly.

"What is it?" Arthur asks wearily, and Merlin opens his mouth.

"Well, it's just that … well …"

"Come on, spit it out," he commands, and Merlin shuffles his feet slightly.

"It's nighttime," he eventually announces, and Arthur slow claps him sarcastically.

"Well noticed, Merlin! How very clever of you. Yes. It is, in fact, nighttime. I really ought to come to you for answers more often."

"That's the lowest form of wit," Merlin says sullenly, picking the clothes back up. But there's a smile dancing in his eyes and Arthur has to suppress his own mirth. Merlin might be an idiot but he certainly doesn't get boring.

"Get to it," Arthur orders, and Merlin leaves the room, banging the door behind himself. Arthur fishes his chain-mail out of the cupboard, straps his sword-belt at his waist and then finds his dark-coloured cloak in the other cupboard. He coughs as dust flies out of the cupboard when he opens it, and beats the cloak down before he puts it on.

"That servant," he mutters tiredly, and moves quickly across the room and out of the doorway. He creeps down the stairway – the less people know of his restlessness the better. They'll jump to conclusions, and the conclusions will become rumour and spread all over the city in a matter of hours. Arthur eventually reaches the courtyard and finds Merlin standing holding the reins of two horses – Arthur's own bay stallion and the little brown mare he himself rides.

"No, Merlin, I'll be going alone," he explains, and takes the reins of his horse.

"I don't think that's a good idea," Merlin informs him anxiously, and Arthur smirks.

"I don't care."

"Won't you – "

"No."

With that rejoinder, Arthur kicks the stallion into a gallop and exits the palace fast, storming through the lower city and out of Camelot, his cloak billowing out behind him. He knows Merlin will follow anyway – he always does. But he hopes he can get a head start – Merlin's mare is no match for the stallion he rides, especially without the additional burden of armour and shield.

He reaches the woods quickly, and his practised hunter's eye quickly picks up a human trail in front of him – a fresh one. He pushes his horse through the undergrowth, following the trampled plants and broken branches, the occasional snagged hairs on branches. He doesn't know who it could be, but suspects someone who has no honest business, and so rides with his sword drawn, muscles tensed.

The horse snorts softly as it picks up his tension, and he relaxes, subconsciously sending it messages of reassurance and security.

The trail almost peters out before he finds it again, and he tracks it to a thick wall of leaves. He can hear running water on the other side, and forces his way through impatiently, fighting his way out of the clutching twigs and making a small noise of annoyance as he picks leaves out of his hair.

A soft sound in front of him grabs his attention, and he raises his head to see a sight that tears him apart. Guinevere is lying in the soft grass, her dark hair spread like a halo around her face, and Lancelot is lying above her, kissing her like he's going to die without her. Arthur doesn't move as Lancelot moves to slide her dress up, because his vision is blurring so badly he's afraid of falling from the horse.

But as the top of her stockings come into view something snaps.

"No," he cries hoarsely. Their heads snap round, and they look _so _guilty as they see him standing there. He knows that his anguish is written all over his face, but he can't (_won't_) control it. His rational mind screams at him that he has no claim over her, and that he has no right to be angry at Lancelot.

But his irrational part is louder, and it bays for Lancelot's blood. Arthur takes a deep breath, blood roaring in his ears, and his hand clutches his sword ever tighter.

"How could you?" he whispers, and there are tears running down her face as she stands.

"I didn't … Arthur, I just …"

She moves towards him, but he twitches the reins and the horse backs away.

"It doesn't matter," he says, but the crack in his voice betrays his lie. "If I am nothing to you then you will be nothing to me."

"Arthur, please," she sobs, but he's already turning his horse away from them and urging it faster, and then … he's flying.

The wind whistles through his hair, gusts into his face as he bends low over the horse's neck. He imagines his love for Guinevere being pounded beneath the horse's hooves as they head back to the castle, the night beginning to scream with the promise of a storm.

He sees the figure on the horse hurrying towards him as he crosses the moor beyond the forest, but he doesn't stop for Merlin. The servant is carrying a torch, and he shouts as Arthur comes closer.

"Is something chasing you?" he calls, and Arthur would laugh if his heart wasn't dying. Like Merlin could do anything if he were being chased. But he makes no reply, and he knows Merlin can see the emotions rushing across his face as the horse flashes past. He hears Merlin hurriedly turn the horse around, but then he's too far ahead and the storm is too loud. Thunder crashes above him, the skies open into a deluge, and the horse shrieks with fear. His thighs are iron as he pressures it forwards, and it's running faster than it's ever run before.

He pelts up the road into the city, flashing through the lower city and into the palace. The guards are unable to challenge him before he's inside. He can hear the clatter of hooves not far behind him, and he vaults off the horse before it's fully stopped, abandoning it in the courtyard and sprinting up the stairs to the main door.

The wildness in his eyes and the anguished line of his mouth stop the guards there questioning him, and he runs through the doors and up the stairs. He doesn't head back to his own rooms, because Merlin will find him. He doesn't know exactly where he's heading, if truth be told.

He rounds a corner and finds himself almost mowing someone down.

"I'm sorry," he forces out automatically, chivalrously halting and bending down to help her to her feet. And then, "Morgana? What are you doing?"

She sighs and eyes him up and down. "I could ask you the same. You're soaked through and you're … are you crying?"

Her tone is instantly softer, and she moves closer.

"No, of course not," he replies hastily, irritably, and tries to move past her.

"I don't think so," she says firmly as he tries to edge away, and grabs his hand. "You're freezing cold, and there's no way I'm sending you back to your rooms in this state. You'll catch you death."

He follows because he can't be bothered to fight. "Who cares?" he mutters sulkily, and she shoots him a penetrating glare over her shoulder.

"_I _care," she points out, and pushes open the door to her chambers. "Get that stupid mail off and find yourself a towel," she orders as she pours water from the huge pan that's been heating over the fire into a tin tub.

He dutifully pulls the mail over his head, shivering now, and wipes his eyes with the towel before trying to dry his hair. She's filled the bath by the time he's got his soaking shirt off.

"Get in that bath and don't come out until you're warm and _clean_," she commands, distastefully eyeing the mud splattered on his cheeks and arms.

"So you're going to watch me bathe, are you?" he asks sardonically. Somehow being close to her, in her private chambers, makes him feel a little better about everything. She rolls her eyes.

"You wish," she replies, and steps into the ante-chamber as he pulls his trousers off and climbs into the bath. She returns, completely avoiding looking at him, and pins sheets up to shield him. He hears the bed springs creak as the warmth begins to seep back into his bones, and he can imagine her splayed out on the bed.

"Thank you," he says quietly, self-consciously splashing the water a little.

"It's nothing," she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice. "Of course, in return I expect you to tell me what on earth you're doing pacing the castle in the middle of night, soaked to the skin and covered in dirt."

He frowns. "I'd rather not say."

She makes an "mm" noise of agreement. "I don't doubt that."

"…I was riding," he says eventually, reaching for the soap to scrub himself with. "I couldn't sleep."

"Join the club," she replies tiredly, and the springs creak again as she rolls over. "So what had you in such a state?"

He tenses up, but she's totally silent on her side of the draperies – just waiting. He's quiet for a long, long time.

"I saw Guinevere … she was with Lancelot. _With _with him."

He hears her intake of breath, and the bed makes a squeak of protest, but before he has time to react she's thrown the sheets aside and is clutching him into a hug.

"Oh, Arthur," she murmurs against his ear, and feeling her warmth against his body, the soft swell of her breast against his bare chest, is suddenly making it hard to be sorry about Guinevere and Lancelot.

"Um, Morgana …" he says quietly as she buries her face in the crook of his neck. "I'm not sure this … I mean, I'm not wearing …"

She blushes and withdraws quickly, her hair falling over her face as she pins the sheets back up. "Sorry," she mutters from the other side, and suddenly he's laughing.

"Shut up," she says impatiently, and he finishes washing himself and climbs out of the bath, wrapping the towel around his hips. He pulls the sheets aside and moves into the main part of the room. She's sitting on the bed, waiting for him.

"Here," she tells him, tossing a pair of trousers at him. "It's one of the pairs I stole for when I practise fighting."

He moves behind the screen in the corner to slide them on, and when he moves back into her sight she's under the covers, regarding him lazily. He sways uncertainly, too proud to ask for what he really wants. She's perceptive though as she eyes him standing there, his damp hair flopping across his forehead.

"Stay with me tonight," she murmurs persuasively. "If you keep my bad dreams away I'll keep away yours."

He smiles and crosses the room quickly, lifting the covers and sliding gratefully in next to her. She lies stiffly on the other side of the bed for a while, but then caves and shifts closer to him until she's lying with her head tucked under his chin, her hands fisted against his bare chest.

"Thank you," he whispers, and she raises her face to regard him, her pale eyes staring into his.

"Anytime," she replies, and as he gazes at her he's suddenly finding it difficult to recall what it was about Guinevere and Lancelot that made him so upset.

"Arthur…" she whispers in a strangled sort of tone, and his hands come up to tangle in her hair.

"Shh," he murmurs, and then he kisses her and she kisses him back and as her nightdress comes off he can't bring himself to care about Guinevere at all, and by the time she pulls him into her he's forgotten the maid entirely. The stars behind his eyelids burn brighter than the sun as his world explodes, and when he collapses, weak-limbed, on top of her, their breathing is ragged and his heart is mended.

She runs her hand through his hair affectionately, smiling satedly up at him. He rolls off her and pulls her close. She settles her head on his still slightly sweaty chest, her hair mussed and damp.

"Thank you for the bath," he murmurs against the top of her head, and he feels her lips curl into a smile against his skin.

"Thank you for the night," she replies, and he tangles his fingers with hers.

"I don't want it to just be tonight, Morgana," he says firmly, and she sighs.

"Arthur, just a while ago you were completely broken by Gwen and Lancelot."

"You opened my eyes to who it is I belong with," he tells her, and she shuts her eyes in despair.

"It's not our destiny," she insists, although she doesn't really want to dissuade him.

"We can change our destinies. Just watch," he announces, and kisses the top of her head. It feels so good to be so close to him, to know him so intimately, that she gives in to her feelings.

"I love you," she whispers, and he smiles.

"I love you too."

It's going to be hard to explain to his father and the court, he knows that. But at least she's nobility, almost royalty, and not a serving-girl. It'll be easier than marrying Guinevere, that's for sure, and he doesn't have to worry about Morgana's heart pining for another.

As she sleeps later on, he's rubbing lazy circles on her hand with his thumb and feeling surprisingly … at peace. Like he's going to be okay. And, he realises suddenly, he _is _going to be okay, because he has Morgana. And she'll be okay because she has him.

He shuts his eyes and falls easily into sleep.

--


End file.
